#AmericanWriters
When the old junk man Death Comes to gather up our bodies And toss them into the sack of obl… I wonder if he will find The corpse of a white multi—millio…
That Justice is a blind goddess Is a thing to which we black are w… Her bandage hides two festering so… That once perhaps were eyes.
I worked for a woman, She wasn’t mean— But she had a twelve—room House to clean. Had to get breakfast,
When you turn the corner And you run into yourself Then you know that you have turned All the corners that are left
been scared and battered. My hopes the wind done scattered. Snow has friz me, Sun has baked me, Looks like between 'em they done
It would be nice In any case, To someday meet you Face to face Walking down
In an envelope marked: PERSONAL God addressed me a letter. In an envelope marked: PERSONAL
God in His infinite wisdom Did not make me very wise— So when my actions are stupid They hardly take God by surprise
It’s such a Bore Being always Poor.
You sicken me with lies, With truthful lies. And with your pious faces. And your wide, out—stretched, mock—welcome, Christian hands.
The ivory gods, And the ebony gods, And the gods of diamond and jade, Sit silently on their temple shelv… While the people
Goin’ down the road, Lawd, Goin’ down the road. Down the road, Lawd, Way, way down the road. Got to find somebody
Night funeral In Harlem: Where did they get Them two fine cars? Insurance man, he did not pay—
The night is beautiful, So the faces of my people. The stars are beautiful, So the eyes of my people. Beautiful, also, is the sun.
Have you dug the spill Of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims On this sepia thrill: Brown sugar lassie,